


Some Kind of Interrogation

by Hopetohell



Category: Night Hunter (2018)
Genre: Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26102476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: Down at the station, you push his buttons til hesnaps.
Relationships: Walter Marshall (Night Hunter)/You, Walter Marshall/Reader
Kudos: 21





	Some Kind of Interrogation

You’re at it again, needling at him just to hear the rich tones of his anger and frustration in your ear. To feel him jerk you out of your seat, haul you bodily around the table until he can get his hands on your ass, until your shoulders scream with the strain of the cuffs pulling at your wrists. They bite, _god_ do they bite, and in the morning you’ll have bracelets of bruises to remind you of this, of how you pushed and pushed and pushed until you’d clawed away every shred of his self control, until all that’s left is the man who runs headlong into danger, who looms and stomps and disregards until he gets what he’s after.

And what he’s after now is you, here in this room where the lights blink and the linoleum is filthy underfoot. Where he bends and rips the shoes from your feet so that when you’re bare to him you are really, truly bare. Can’t pretend that you’re anything other than at his absolute mercy. 

It’s exactly where you’d hoped to be. 

And here he is, running those big calloused hands up your back, catching at you with his blunt, bitten nails on the way back down. Reaches his hand to cup your ass and slips his thumb between your folds because you are already _so_ wet for him, aren’t you? He could shove himself in right now and you would yield absolutely. 

His breath is hot on the back of your neck as he presses you into the tabletop and hisses, “I don’t think you realize how much trouble you’re in.” And he shifts, lifts his hand, and slaps you hard squarely across your cunt. And when you scream—and you do scream because how could you not—he takes that hand with its wet shining smear and curls it around your face to cover your mouth. 

“Quiet.” His tone is flat, smooth. It’s a glassy pond and there could be absolutely anything under there. “Be quiet, for fuck’s sake, you want someone to hear you?” You’re hot and throbbing from his slap and it’s so hard to focus long enough to nod against his hand, to poke your tongue out and lick at him to feel his grip tighten against your face. To feel his groan rumbling in his chest where he’s pressed tight against your back. 

And that’s his free hand opening his belt, his free hand pulling his cock out and guiding himself inside in one— _fuck_ —one long unyielding push, til the fabric of his jeans rasps hard against the backs of your sensitive thighs. Maybe he’ll go hard enough to imprint the line of his zipper down the back of your leg, a little line of dots and dashes that spells out _yes_. 

He rattles your chains with every thrust, spreads his legs to bracket yours and leans down against you because he’s so tall, so big, and what he wants is to burrow inside you, make himself a part of you, so deep inside you’d never get him out even if you wanted to. And when he grinds out the words against the back of your neck—“fuck, fuck, I’m close, take it, take it _all_ ”— you can’t help but shriek into his hand. Can't help but whine and buck against him as best you can because he’s pushing you into the edge of the table just right with every thrust. Can’t help but shudder and clench around him when you feel him spill inside, hot and pulsing. Can’t help the sigh of pleasure when, still fully seated inside you, he presses a kiss to the nape of your neck and takes his hand off your face to stroke those big fingers down your cheek.


End file.
